


Feral

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Master/Pet, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-12 08:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2102508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'I think I’m going to get you a collar,' Giriko announces from the doorway, before even waiting for Justin to put his book down." Giriko tries to pick a fight but Justin proves more compliant than expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feral

Justin is reading when Giriko comes into the room. They live together in the technical sense of the word, and fairly frequently interact on a more intimate level than just cohabitation, but Justin has found that their interests, other than in each other, have almost no overlap. That’s fine with him. The chainsaw is capable of amusing himself, sometimes even of doing so without massive bodily harm to bystanders, and since he steadied enough to be trusted without a babysitter Justin has taken advantage of the freedom this grants him to retreat into his more naturally introverted state. It’s more comfortable to shut himself away in the bedroom sometimes, away from the other man’s presence and the sound of his perpetual television shows, so Justin can drop into the singleminded focus he has always excelled at. But sometimes Giriko gets bored, or wants to amuse himself with Justin more than with something else, and Justin realizes this is one of those times even before the door has ricocheted off the wall from the force of Giriko’s shove.

“I think I’m going to get you a collar,” Giriko announces from the doorway, before even waiting for Justin to put his book down.

Justin was going to set a bookmark in place and turn his full attention to the chainsaw, but that particular introduction ruffles his patience; just for that he leaves the book open, turns his eyes up with excruciating slowness to highlight just how much of an interruption Giriko has just caused. He’s not entirely certain this show makes it through Giriko’s attention, but it certainly helps him fall into the icy coolness that permeates his voice when he says, “Excuse me?”

“A collar,” Giriko repeats, drawling over the word as if his grin wasn’t enough to indicate he’s trying to needle the blond. “You’d look so good in one.”

“Is this some sort of commentary on my preference for receiving?” Justin asks. “If you  _want_  to bottom, all you have to do is say so.”

That gets him the growl of irritation he was angling for. Justin smiles at the victory, snaps his book shut and moves to set it on the bedside table while Giriko hisses, “That ain’t got nothing to do with it,” before he recovers some modicum of composure. “I was just thinking. Living with you is kinda like living with a cat.”

Justin is fairly certain this is supposed to get a rise out of him. He doesn’t feel particularly offended, though, and his lack of response makes Giriko seethe visibly even before he raises an eyebrow and says, “Cats don’t usually put up with collars, you know.” When he slides off the bed he moves deliberately slowly, arches his back farther than is strictly necessary when he stretches. “Besides, I’m fairly certain if either of us needs a collar it’s you.”

“Cat is giving you too much credit.” Giriko steps in from the doorway and Justin sits back on the bed, shifts away from the reach of his fingers to lie across the mattress with every appearance of inadvertent motion instead of active avoidance. “You’re more of a kitten.”

“Mm.” Justin comes up onto an elbow, props his chin on his hand so he can purse his lips in feigned consideration. “I’m your kitten, huh?”

He can see the exact moment Giriko’s expression softens from picking a fight into consideration of this new angle. Even out of the corner of his eye the momentary relaxation of the other man’s features is perfectly clear. “What?”

“Isn’t that what you’re saying?” Justin rolls over onto his back, tips his head back so he can stare at Giriko upside down. “If I’m a kitten you must be my owner. Although I admit, I  _have_  thought of you as my dog before.”

“Fuck you,” Giriko growls. Justin doesn’t even bother fighting back his smirk of achievement; nothing can sway Giriko from the follow-through, not now he’s actually angry. “No, no way, I ain’t wearing a collar for you.”

“I never said anything about collars,” Justin points out without turning over. “That was your idea. Though it doesn’t work as well for cats.”

Giriko shrugs one-shouldered, steps in to lean over the bed so he can dig his fingers into Justin’s hair. “I’m not that attached to that part of the idea, anyway.”

Giriko’s fingers are shoving harder than usual over Justin’s scalp, scraping down against the blond’s hairline and pressing into the soft skin just behind his ear. When Justin tips his head sideways to expose his neck he lets the movement go a little slower, a little more graceful than usual. “Which parts  _are_  you attached to, exactly?” he asks, keeping his voice cool so he sounds only mildly interested.

“The quiet,” Giriko answers, so fast it’s a sure tell that he’s been thinking about this. “You’d be a lot easier to handle if you kept your mouth shut. Prettier, too.”

Justin laughs, sharp-edged with amusement, but he doesn’t pull away. “I’m fairly certain hearing and sight are independent, Giriko. And cats are not nearly as quiet as you seem to think they are.”

“See.” Giriko draws his hand away, leaving relatively chill air to take its place, and Justin frowns at the loss. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“I thought you  _liked_  me mouthy,” Justin complains, but he does it quietly, so Giriko can pretend to not hear him, and rolls back over to come up onto his knees. “You want me to be quiet, then?”

Giriko blinks at Justin, stares at him like he’s looking for the catch under the blond’s words. When he says, “Yes,” it’s hesitant, like he’s expecting some sort of physical attack in retribution for his words. “No talking, at least.”

Justin coughs a laugh -- he knows perfectly well what Giriko is angling for -- but then he covers his mouth with his hand, shuts his eyes to focus his attention into determination for a moment. Then he breathes out, drops his hand, shuts his mouth, and looks up to meet the chainsaw’s eyes as levelly as he can manage.

Giriko actually draws back from the edge of the bed, takes a half-step backwards as his eyes go wide with shock. “Wait. You’re actually gonna  _do_  it?”

A lack of words doesn’t stop Justin from rolling his eyes --  _obviously_ , it says, clear as speech -- lowers his chin, raises his eyebrows in the best taunt for more he can manage without actually reaching out over the bed for the other man. Giriko’s eyebrows go up, his mouth drops open; then he laughs, rough and dragging over genuine amusement in his throat, and comes back in, reaches out to ruffle Justin’s hair roughly enough that the blond flinches.

“Well, shit,” Giriko says, and there is so much audible delight in his voice that Justin’s rising irritation evaporates. He  _never_  hears Giriko sound like that. “I thought we were gonna get into a fight, not that you were gonna go  _along_  with it.” His tone is infuriatingly condescending, but without words there is only so much Justin can convey with a frown, and there’s a possessiveness to the fingers sliding down and around the back of the blond’s neck that makes Justin’s skin flare hot, convinces the blond to duck his head so Giriko doesn’t see the way his frown starts to melt into the leading edge of a smile.

“You’re wearing too much,” Giriko observes, bringing a knee up onto the bed so he can lean in farther. Justin smoothes his expression into neutrality, lifts his head in half-thought expectation of a kiss, but Giriko just leans closer until he’s pulling Justin in against his shoulder, blocking the other’s vision with the pressure of his shirt. “Pretty sure shirts aren’t standard, kitten.”

Justin wishes he was irritated by that diminutive. He’s pretty sure he  _should_  be; he’s a Death Weapon, he’s more than capable of holding his own against the chainsaw. The endearment is intended to be insulting, he can hear the condescension dripping off Giriko’s tongue. But the flush that rolls under his skin has nothing to do with rage, and when he swallows it’s not a growl he’s holding back from his throat.

He doesn’t try to respond. Justin doesn’t trust himself to make any sound at all, words or purring or otherwise; he just slides sideways, pulls free of Giriko’s hold so he can shift off the bed to the floor and pull his t-shirt up over his head. Giriko’s watching him when he comes free of the fabric, the chainsaw’s eyes lingering against Justin’s skin more than his face like the movement of his arms as he tosses the cloth aside and reaches for his pants is as important, maybe  _more_  important, than his expression. His gaze barely flickers when Justin pushes his jeans free, steps out of them to climb back onto the bed bare of anything but his skin. He looks faintly abstracted, more like he’s watching artwork than a living person, and when Justin stretches back out over the sheets Giriko doesn’t immediately grab at his cock to work him hard, like he usually would. The chainsaw’s fingers touch against Justin’s neck instead, drag across his side and down to his hip like he really is stroking a cat, and Justin shivers as much from the unprecedented tenderness of the other man’s fingers as from the sensation prickling through his skin.

“You’re so  _small_ ,” Giriko says, his tone saying he’s speaking more to himself than to Justin. “You really are like a pet, I could pick you up without even trying.” His hand curves back up, around to Justin’s back and down over the curve of his ass; Justin can feel the intention drawing tight in Giriko’s wrist even before the chainsaw shoves him down flat into the mattress, is sighing in anticipation before Giriko has pinned him down. “Or crush you, if I wanted to.”

Justin takes a too-quick breath, audible even past the sheets to Giriko’s ears, and the chainsaw laughs and draws his hand back. “You don’t even  _want_  to be handled gently.” There’s a pause, the wet sound of Giriko sucking moisture over his fingers. “‘S for the best. I’ve never been very good with animals, honestly.”

The hand that closes against Justin’s thigh is too hard, shoves the blond’s legs apart rather than asking or even waiting to see if the other is willing to cooperate. Justin whines a wordless reaction, not sure if he’s protesting or encouraging or both, but his skin is flushing hot and expectant, pushing him hard against the mattress even before Giriko’s spit-slick fingers slide over his entrance.

“Sorry,” the chainsaw says in faux sympathy. “You’ll have to use  _words_  if you want me to understand you.” He pushes, twists his wrist to force his fingers inside, and Justin lets his breath go all at once and relaxes as Giriko slides into him. There’s more friction than usual, the minor lubrication of the chainsaw’s saliva fading even as he starts to thrust his fingers, but even the edge of almost-pain is rushing to Justin’s cock, bringing his breathing faster and hotter until he can’t fight back the instinct to fist his hands in the sheets and rock himself desperately against the bed. There’s the sound of a laugh, more of a growl than coherent noise, and Giriko pushes needlessly at Justin’s knee to angle his legs wider.

“You like that.” It’s an observation rather than a question, judging from the way the chainsaw shoves his fingers in harder without waiting for a response. “Do you want me to get the lube and fuck you, kitten?”

Justin arches against the bed, shuts his eyes against the self-conscious flush burning over his skin, and when he opens his mouth a strangled mewling sound comes out, torn straight from his bloodstream without any stop-off at rational intention along the way. Giriko’s laugh is sharp enough to cut and hot enough to burn; Justin’s flush darkens, takes his breath directly from his lungs, and he turns his head in harder against the sheets in a half-hearted attempt to hide his glazed expression.

“No need to be embarrassed,” Giriko says. The words roll over his tongue, picking up a taunting rumble in direct opposition to the initial meaning of the words. He slides his fingers back, deliberately pressing in against Justin as he pulls back so he drags another groan from the other’s throat, even if it’s half-muffled against the bed. “I’ll take care of you, you don’t need to worry about  _anything_.” He rests one hand in the small of Justin’s back, more like he’s offering casual comfort to the blond than to hold him in place. Justin can feel him shifting but doesn’t look up, doesn’t lift his head from the sheets even when he hears the sound of Giriko dragging the drawer in the bedside table open, rifling through the contents with more haste than care. The other man straightens, the hand on Justin’s skin moves, and Justin takes a breath like he’s only just remembered how. He’s still hot, he’s certain his blush is coloring all his skin pink, but he can hear the wet sound of Giriko slicking his fingers with the lube, and any further attempt to feign indifference is useless.

Giriko is reaching for the front of his jeans when Justin turns over, glances up and starts to grin in the moment Justin can see his face before the blond sits up and reaches out to slide his hands up under the chainsaw’s shirt. Giriko chuckles, low enough that Justin can feel the vibration hum under his fingertips, unfastens the button of his jeans while Justin slides his fingers up over the chainsaw’s skin, leans in to bump his forehead against Giriko’s chest. When he opens his mouth his throat pulls tight around another whimper, so high it hums ticklish against the top of his mouth.

“Patience,” Giriko growls in amusement. A hand closes on Justin’s shoulder, shoves him back until he falls flat to the mattress. “I need like three seconds, it’ll just take me longer if I have to hold you down.” Justin wrinkles his nose, reaches back for the bottom of Giriko’s shirt and starts to pull again before Giriko hisses and closes his fingers on his wrist to hold him down.

“Fuck,” he sighs. Justin hooks a leg around Giriko’s leg, tries to pull him in bodily or maybe just give himself the leverage to arch up closer, so when Giriko gets his zipper down his knuckles brush against the inside of the blond’s leg. “What the hell do you  _want_ , are you that impatient for my cock?”

Justin rolls his eyes, huffs in exasperation, and shoves so hard at the bottom of Giriko’s shirt that he gets it halfway over the chainsaw’s arms before the other man can collect himself enough to resist the force. There’s the start of a hiss of frustration; then Giriko goes silent and considering. Justin doesn’t even have to look up to see the understanding flicker over his face before there’s motion, the chainsaw reaching to pull the cloth from Justin’s fingers so he can tug the shirt up over his head and toss it aside.

“Is that what you wanted?” he’s saying, but he’s not waiting for a response before he leans in to offer his bare skin for Justin’s reaching touch. Justin purrs needless agreement, winds his arms in around Giriko’s waist and pulls himself closer by the angle of his leg; Giriko doesn’t push him away, doesn’t even say anything other than to growl on a laugh as he gets his hand braced against the bed over Justin’s shoulder. Justin pulls himself up, off the sheets entirely until he bumps in against Giriko’s cock, and that gets him another cough of amusement.

“Yeah, okay.” Giriko’s hand brushes the inside of Justin’s thigh, as he reaches down to line himself up, his head comes down against Justin’s shoulder. There’s a gust of warmth as he sighs, a slick draw of damp as he slides his mouth sideways against Justin’s shoulder, and the blond is just starting a hum of satisfaction when Giriko thrusts into him.

Justin’s not sure what the difference is. It might be that Giriko didn’t take as long opening him up to start, or maybe it’s a difference in the way they’re angled, or the warmth of Giriko’s bare skin against him. Maybe it’s that he’s not speaking, he can’t taunt Giriko into more or faster, or maybe it’s just the feel of Giriko’s mouth hot and wet in a kiss against his shoulder. It doesn’t really matter, in the end; Giriko pushes forward, and all of Justin’s skin lights up in a wave as if Giriko is setting him on fire.

He makes a noise too incoherent to be speech, for all that it started out as Giriko’s name, and there’s a rumble of a laugh against his shoulder. “You really do make a good pet,” Giriko says before lifting his head, moving sideways so Justin can see the sharp edge of his teeth when he grins. “Keep mewling for me, kitten.”

Justin obeys. It’s easier than resisting, really, and he’s already giving in passively by not speaking. When Giriko pulls back Justin takes a breath more of anticipation than bracing himself, and when the chainsaw comes back forward he makes no effort at all to resist the resonant moan that forces up from his throat in the wake of another flush of heat.

“Ow,” Giriko says, as if considering, and Justin realizes he’s got his nails dug in over the chainsaw’s shoulders. “That  _hurts_.” He’s grinning, though, leans down to set the points of his teeth against Justin’s lower lip. When Justin drags down, deliberately hard this time, it draws a laugh from the chainsaw’s throat rather than protest and a quick sharp thrust that makes Justin jerk and catch his lip bloody on Giriko’s hold.

“Careful,” Giriko says as he lets him go. Justin can feel blood over his teeth, licks over his lip to taste the iron and catch the worst of the bleeding. “You’ll hurt yourself with claws like that.” Justin hisses but Giriko just laughs, comes back in to kiss him and doesn’t pull away even when Justin returns the favor, bites hard enough at the chainsaw’s lip that their blood mingles against his tongue. When he lets go Giriko draws back, and for a moment Justin thinks he’s going to shove him down, maybe, hold his hands or his teeth out of danger until they’re finished. But he’s just shifting his weight so he can reach down and curl his fingers around Justin’s cock; he doesn’t acknowledge his bleeding lip, even when it drips hot red onto Justin’s shoulder.

“You’re half-feral,” he says. His teeth are stained dark, Justin’s not even sure if it’s his blood or Giriko’s own leaving the color. Then his hand shifts, draws up hard and too-fast, and Justin jerks and gasps and grabs for traction at Giriko’s hair for lack of anything better to hold on to.

“I’m gonna have to tame you,” Giriko purrs, like he’s relishing the idea, and he starts to thrust in earnest, fast and hard enough that Justin slides back an inch before his shoulder hits Giriko’s arm and braces him in place. Giriko grunts when Justin jerks his head back by his hair but doesn’t protest, and when Justin lifts his head to drag his teeth against the chainsaw’s throat he’s rewarded with a half-thought stroke over his length. That drops him back to the bed, pulls another whimper out of his throat, and Giriko’s leaning back down over him, laughing against his mouth until Justin scratches down against his spine again, until his laughter turns into an almost-appreciative hiss and a tongue sliding against Justin’s mouth until he opens his lips. Giriko doesn’t seem to be at all concerned about the blond’s teeth, and honestly he doesn’t need to be; Justin’s concentration is going hazy just from the feel of Giriko moving inside him, and every time he thinks to pull himself into composure Giriko punctuates with a motion of his hand. It’s possible that he has developed a better read on the other weapon than the blond thought, a better sense of how to keep Justin off-balance and desperate, but just at the moment Justin can’t find it in him to even pretend to mind. He’s breathing too fast, gasping air from around the sliding pressure of Giriko’s mouth against his or when the chainsaw dips down to leave red-stained kisses against Justin’s collarbone or throat, and the hand tangled in Giriko’s hair is as much a tether for himself now as a threat to the other man.

Justin’s just letting some of the tension in the fingers still set against Giriko’s skin relax when the chainsaw lifts his head to look down at the blond. His mouth is mostly clean, now, the only evidence of violence left is that in the promise at the back of his eyes. He smiles, softer than usual for all that it doesn’t take the edge off his gaze, and when he says, “Are you  _domesticated_  yet?” he drags his hand up over Justin, his hold so tight it’s actively painful, and Justin closes his eyes and groans and comes with the taste of blood in his mouth and a thousand unsaid words lodged in his throat. Giriko keeps stroking over him, still with too much pressure so the pleasure veers into excess, so Justin is gasping and whimpering by the time Giriko lets him go.

“Be good,” Giriko purrs, like a warning, and Justin gasps in what might be taken as affirmative and relaxes against the sheets, lets the other man’s last few thrusts pin him to the mattress with the weird almost-nausea of too much too soon. He’s breathless and gasping, shifting with indecision as his body says no and his mind says yes; then Giriko goes tense over him and groans himself into shuddering orgasm as well. He drops down over the blond, like his arms just won’t hold him up anymore, and Justin shuts his eyes and lets the last ripples of pleasure fade while Giriko’s warmth bleeds into his skin.

He doesn’t open his eyes when he lets his fist of Giriko’s hair go in favor of stroking his fingers through the strands in the closest thing to affection they usually ever have, and Giriko doesn’t move even when Justin speaks.

“You’re wearing the collar, next time.”

There’s a laugh into his shoulder, a growl that could be appreciation or protest. It doesn’t matter, either way. Justin smiles at the ceiling, traces over the marks he left of Giriko’s back, and listens to the sound of his breathing falling into time with the chainsaw’s.


End file.
